Be Careful What You Wish For: The Clifton Chronicles 4 (52 page)

Harry read the card from HRH the Queen Mother once again. Such a personal message. Emma had already decided to put the vase in her office when they got back to Bristol, and to fill it with
lilies every Monday morning. Harry smiled. And why not?

When Emma came out of the bathroom, Harry took her place and closed the door behind him. She slipped off her dressing gown and climbed into bed, far too tired even to consider reading a few
pages of
The Spy Who Came In From The Cold
, by a new author Harry had recommended. She switched off the light by the side of her bed and said, ‘Goodnight, darling,’ even though
she knew Harry couldn’t hear her.

By the time Harry came out of the bathroom, she was sound asleep. He tucked her in as if she were a child, kissed her on the forehead and whispered, ‘Goodnight, my darling,’ then
climbed into his bed, amused by her gentle purr. He would never have dreamed of suggesting that she snored.

He lay awake, so proud of her. The launch couldn’t have gone better. He turned on his side, assuming he’d drift off within moments but, although his eyes were leaden and he felt
exhausted, he couldn’t get to sleep. Something wasn’t right.

D
ON
P
EDRO
rose just after two, and not because he couldn’t sleep.

Once he’d dressed, he packed an overnight bag and went downstairs to his study. He opened the safe, took out the remaining £23,645 and put it in the bag. The bank now owned the house
and all its contents, as well as the fixtures and fittings. If they hoped he was going to repay the rest of the overdraft, Mr Ledbury was welcome to make a trip to Buenos Aires where he would
receive a two-word response.

He listened to the early morning news on the radio, and there was no mention of the
Buckingham
in the headlines. He was confident that he could slip out of the country long before they
realized he’d gone. He glanced out of the window, and cursed when he saw the relentless rain bouncing off the pavement, fearing that it might be some time before he was able to find a
taxi.

He switched off the lights, stepped outside and closed the door of number 44 Eaton Square for the last time. He looked up and down the road, not at all optimistic, and was delighted when he saw
a taxi that had just switched on its
For Hire
sign, heading towards him. Don Pedro raised an arm, ran out into the rain and jumped into the back of the cab. As he pulled the door closed he
heard a click.

‘London Airport,’ said Don Pedro, sinking into the back seat.

‘I don’t think so,’ said the chauffeur.

Another man, just two cabins along from Harry, was also wide awake, but then, he wasn’t trying to get to sleep. He was just about to go to work.

He climbed off his bed at 2.59 a.m., fully rested, fully alert, walked over to the large trunk in the middle of the cabin and lifted its lid. He hesitated for only a moment, then as instructed
he flicked the switch, setting in motion a process from which there could be no turning back. After making sure that the large black second hand was moving, 29:59, 29:58, he pressed a button on the
side of his watch and lowered the lid of the trunk. He then picked up the small carrier bag by his bed that contained everything he needed, turned off the light, opened the cabin door slowly and
stared out into the dimly lit corridor. He waited for a moment until his eyes were focused. When he was certain there was no one around, he stepped into the corridor and quietly closed the
door.

He placed a foot gingerly on to the thick, royal blue carpet and padded silently down the corridor, ears attuned for the slightest unfamiliar sound. But he heard nothing other than the gentle
rhythm of the engine as the ship ploughed steadily through still waters. He stopped when he came to the top of the grand staircase. The light was a little brighter on the stairs, but there was
still no one to be seen. He knew the first-class lounge was one deck below, and in its far corner was a discreet sign:
Gentlemen.

No one passed him as he made his way down the grand staircase, but when he entered the lounge he immediately saw a heavily built man slumped in a comfortable chair, legs askew, looking as if he
had taken full advantage of the free alcohol on offer to first-class passengers on the first night of the maiden voyage.

He crept past the dormant passenger, who was snoring contentedly, but didn’t stir, and continued towards the sign on the far side of the room. As he walked into the lavatory – he was
even beginning to think like them – a light came on, which took him by surprise. He hesitated for a moment, then remembered it was just another of the ship’s proud innovations that
he’d read about in the glossy brochure. He crossed to the washbasins and placed his carrier bag on the marble top, unzipped it, and began to take out the various lotions, potions and
accessories that would remove his alter-ego: a bottle of oil, a cut-throat razor, a pair of scissors, a comb and a pot of Pond’s face cream would all contribute to bringing down the curtain
on his opening-night performance.

He checked his watch. He still had twenty-seven minutes and three seconds before another curtain would rise, and, by then, he would just be part of a panicking crowd. He unscrewed the top of the
bottle of oil and dabbed it on his face, neck and forehead. After a few moments he felt the burning sensation that the make-up artist had warned him about. He slowly removed the grey balding
hairpiece and placed it on the side of the washbasin, pausing to look at himself in the mirror, pleased to be reunited with his thick, red, wavy hair. Next he peeled off the wine-flushed cheeks, as
if he was removing a plaster from a wound that had recently healed, and finally, with the help of the scissors, he cut into the double chin that the make-up artist had been so proud of.

He filled the basin with warm water and scrubbed his face, removing any signs of scar tissue, glue or colouring that remained obstinately in place. After he’d dried his face, the skin
still felt a little rough in places, so he applied a layer of Pond’s cold cream to complete the transformation.

Liam Doherty looked at himself in the mirror to see that he had shed fifty years in less than twenty minutes; every woman’s dream. He picked up his comb, restored his red quiff and then
placed what was left of Lord Glenarthur’s visage into the bag and set about removing his lordship’s apparel.

He began by unfastening the stud on the stiff Van Heusen white collar, which had left a thin red line around his neck, yanked off the Old Etonian tie and dropped them into the bag. He replaced
the white silk shirt with a grey cotton one and a thin string tie that all the lads on the Falls Road were now wearing. He slipped off his yellow braces, allowing the baggy grey trousers to fall in
a heap on the floor, along with his stomach – a cushion – then bent down and untied the laces on Glenarthur’s black leather brogues, kicked them off and put them in the bag. He
took out a pair of the latest slim-fitting drainpipe trousers and couldn’t help smiling as he pulled them on; no braces, just a thin leather belt he’d picked up in Carnaby Street when
he was in London on another job. Finally he slipped his feet into a pair of brown suede loafers that would never have trodden a first-class carpet. He looked in the mirror, and saw himself.

Doherty checked his watch. He had eleven minutes and forty-one seconds left before he had to reach the safe haven of his new cabin. No time to waste, because if the bomb went off while he was
still in first class, there would only be one suspect.

He stuffed all of the lotions and potions back into his bag, zipped it up and hurried across to the door, opened it cautiously and peered out into the lounge. No one to be seen in either
direction. Even the drunken man had disappeared. He strode quickly past the empty chair where only the deep imprint of a body remained to suggest that someone had recently been there.

Doherty hurried across the lounge to the grand staircase; a second-class passenger in first-class surroundings. He didn’t stop until he reached the third deck landing, the demarcation
zone. When he climbed over the red chain that divided the officers from the other ranks, he relaxed for the first time; not yet safe, but certainly out of the combat zone. He stepped on to a green
cord carpet and jogged down a narrower staircase for four more flights, until he reached the deck where his other cabin awaited him.

He went in search of cabin 706. He had just passed 726 and 724 when he spotted an early morning reveller trying to place a key in a lock without much success. Was it even the man’s own
cabin? Doherty turned his head away as he walked past him, not that the reveller would have been able to identify him or anyone else when the alarm went off.

When he reached cabin 706 he unlocked the door and stepped inside. He checked his watch: seven minutes and forty-three seconds before everyone would be woken, however deeply they were sleeping.
He walked across to his bunk and lifted the pillow to find an unused passport and a new ticket that transformed him from Lord Glenarthur to Dave Roscoe, 47 Napier Drive, Watford. Occupation:
painter and decorator.

He collapsed on to the bunk and glanced at his watch: six minutes and nineteen seconds, eighteen, seventeen; more than enough time. Three of his mates would also be wide awake waiting, but they
wouldn’t speak to each other again until they all met up at the Volunteer on the Falls Road to enjoy several pints of Guinness. They would never talk in public about tonight, because their
absence from their usual haunts in west Belfast would have been noted and make them suspects for months, probably years to come. He heard a loud thump on a door further down the corridor, and
assumed the reveller had finally given in.

Six minutes and twenty-one seconds . . .

Always the same anxieties whenever you have to wait. Had you left any clues that would lead straight to you? Had you made any mistakes that would cause the operation to end in failure and make
you a laughing stock back home? He wouldn’t relax until he was on a lifeboat and, better still, on another ship heading towards another port.

Five minutes and fourteen seconds . . .

He knew his compatriots, soldiers in the same cause, would be just as nervous as he was. The waiting was always the worst part, out of your control, no longer anything you could do.

Four minutes and eleven seconds . . .

Worse than a football match when you’re one–nil up but you know the other side are stronger and well capable of scoring in injury time. He recalled his area commander’s
instructions: when the alarm goes off, be sure you’re among the first on deck, and the first in the lifeboats, because by this time tomorrow, they’ll be searching for anyone under the
age of thirty-five with an Irish accent, so keep your mouths shut, boys.

Three minutes and forty seconds . . . thirty-nine . . .

He stared at the cabin door and imagined the worst that could possibly happen. The bomb wouldn’t go off, the door would burst open and a dozen police thugs, possibly more, would come
charging in, batons flailing in every direction, not caring how many times they hit you. But all he could hear was the rhythmical pounding of the engine as the
Buckingham
continued its
sedate passage across the Atlantic on its way to New York. A city it would never reach.

Two minutes and thirty-four seconds . . . thirty-three . . .

He began to imagine what it would be like once he was back on the Falls Road. Young lads in short trousers would look up in awe as he passed them on the street, their only ambition to be like
him when they grew up. The hero who had blown up the
Buckingham
only a few weeks after it had been named by the Queen Mother. No mention of innocent lives lost; there are no innocent lives
when you believe in a cause. In fact, he’d never meet any of the passengers in the cabins on the upper decks. He would read all about them in tomorrow’s papers, and if he’d done
his job properly there would be no mention of his name.

One minute and twenty-two seconds . . . twenty-one . . .

What could possibly go wrong now? Would the device, constructed in an upstairs bedroom on the Dungannon estate, let him down at the last minute? Was he about to suffer the silence of
failure?

Sixty seconds . . .

He began to whisper each number.

‘Fifty-nine, fifty-eight, fifty-seven, fifty-six . . .’

Had the drunken man slumped in the chair in the lounge been waiting for him all the time? Were they now on the way to his cabin?

‘Forty-nine, forty-eight, forty-seven, forty-six . . .’

Had the lilies been replaced, thrown out, taken away? Perhaps Mrs Clifton was allergic to pollen?

‘Thirty-nine, thirty-eight, thirty-seven, thirty-six . . .’

Had they unlocked Lord Glenarthur’s room and found the open trunk?

‘Twenty-nine, twenty-eight, twenty-seven, twenty-six . . .’

Were they already searching the ship for the man who’d slipped out of the toilet in the first-class lounge?

‘Nineteen, eighteen, seventeen, sixteen . . .’